


The Joye of Snacks

by khorazir



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Baking, Banter, Christmas, Domesticity, Don't copy to another site, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, gingerbread
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28151811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khorazir/pseuds/khorazir
Summary: Christmas is approaching, and Sherlock surprises John with newly acquired culinary skills. John, in turn, simply ... surprises Sherlock.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 48
Kudos: 170
Collections: 2020 Advent Collection Johnlock Style, Isolated Johnlock Collection





	The Joye of Snacks

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Лакомая Отрада (The Joye of Snacks)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28281582) by [Lesli_rus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesli_rus/pseuds/Lesli_rus)



> This story and the art were created for the **2020 Advent Collection Johnlock Style**. The prompt was “Making a gingerbread house”. The story is not linked to any of my other series, and was originally never intended to get this long. The title is inspired by Nanny Ogg’s infamous book _The Joye of Snacks_ , courtesy of Terry Pratchett’s (GNU) _Discworld_ books.

_Gingerbread._

It’s the first thing John smells when he steps through the front door after a long shift at the vaccination centre. Despite the stressful conditions, he appreciates being asked to work there. It’s a glimmer of hope ever since the pandemic started, although it will be a while until things are going to return to normal. Still, he and Mrs Hudson are going to receive their shots early in the new year, she because of her age and he because of his profession, making him hopeful that his constant fear of bringing the disease home to Sherlock and particularly Mrs H. will diminish.

Shrugging off his jacket and hanging it up, he takes off his FFP2-mask and drops it into the pot they use to sterilise them and replaces the lid. He disinfects his hands and smiling, he takes another deep breath of the wonderful scent filling all of 221. Mrs Hudson has been busy baking, it seems, which means that Sherlock and he will soon be in the fortunate position of ‘doing her a favour’ and tasting her creations to make sure they’re ‘okay’. They’re always more than okay, of course, and it’s really Mrs Hudson doing _them_ a favour by providing them with food Sherlock will eat even when he’s completely distracted by a case and oblivious to the world and his body’s needs. But anything catering to his sweet tooth can be placed where he is likely to find it, along with a cup of tea, and it’s going to be eaten eventually.

Like John, he has been extremely busy lately, solving cases online for private clients and occasionally venturing out to help Lestrade and some of the other Met officers. John expected Sherlock to soon be bored out of his mind with the restrictions the pandemic imposed on their daily life, but Sherlock manages to occupy himself surprisingly well: experimenting, solving cases, composing, reading, cooking for them now and again. He even cleans and tidies up once in a while, and has been looking after their laundry, the sterilisation of their masks, and, most shockingly of all, shopping.

John isn’t quite sure what to make of his strangely domestic Sherlock yet – not that he minds being looked after like this. It’s not the only change that has come about in recent months. There are all these ... looks. Glances. Whatever. Weird stares that are always terminated immediately when John retaliates. More than once, Sherlock blushed as if caught doing something embarrassing or forbidden. There’s more touching, too. Small things. A hand on the shoulder here, a lingering contact of fingers when handing each other things there, a closer proximity when spending time sitting on the couch, an rub of legs and feet when they’re in their respective chairs. None of this ever gets talked about, of course, nor acknowledged in any way. But John can’t help suspecting that something is up. Something that has been simmering between them ... well ... basically forever, but which the weird circumstances of the pandemic have brought to a boil.

With any other person, John would be sure that they were flirting with him. But with Sherlock ... He doesn’t do these things, does he? Well, he does flirt, occasionally, but only as a means to an end – to extricate confessions, beguile witnesses or trick criminals. Even his proposal to Janine was a sham (and so, apparently, were his sexual exploits Janine blabbed about to the tabloids). But with John ... there’s definite affection there, John is certain of it, and something deeper and more serious, even. When John was suspected COVID-positive, Sherlock fretted and worried even more than John himself, going out of his way to pester his brother into getting John a quick test which, fortunately, turned out to be negative. In return, Sherlock is going to have to take his parents to a musical, once theatres open again, something he hates but apparently accepted without complaint in exchange for Mycroft pulling some strings. John is pretty convinced by now that Sherlock is in love with him but being who he is and lacking experience in that department, Sherlock doesn’t know how to go about admitting it. So he woos John with music and homecooked meals and increased consideration when it comes to keeping the flat habitable. It’s rather touching, in its way. It’s also incredibly nerve-wracking, because they’ve been like this ever since the first lockdown in spring, and it’s almost Christmas now, and nothing bloody changes. _Perhaps,_ thinks John, _I should man up and finally do something about it, because he as sure as hell isn’t going to._

“Hoo hoo,” comes from the direction of Mrs Hudson’s door, making John jump slightly. She peeks out, her hair in curlers, and smiles. “Long day, John?”

“Yes. But it’s good to be doing something to help fight this pandemic. Your gingerbread smells delicious, Mrs Hudson.”

“Doesn’t it? Only it’s not mine. Sherlock has been baking and doing things in the kitchen ever since you left in the morning. He says it’s for a case, but I think he got carried away again a little, the dear man. Go up and have a look.”

John gazes up the stairs in mild alarm. While Sherlock has mastered cooking with astonishing ease, Sherlock and baking is a whole different matter. The last time he tried to bake bread because they’d run out and neither wanted to risk going to the shops had resulted in a kitchen so full of smoke, they had to air it out for two days and a lump of coal – all because Sherlock had forgotten to set a timer for the oven and been distracted by an online case, causing the bread to burn.

“Did the smoke alarm go off?”

Mrs Hudson shakes her head, smiling. “He was careful this time. But I wasn’t allowed to peek, he told me. I have no idea what he’s been doing. Go on.”

**– <o>–**

The enticing scent of ginger, cinnamon, cloves, aniseed and nutmeg and whichever other spices are traditionally used for making gingerbread gets stronger as John climbs the stairs. There’s the distinct smell of bitter almonds, too, and honey, and citrus scents as well. _Gosh, Sherlock has been going all out with his baking endeavours,_ muses John as he pushes open the door to the living room.

Which indeed he has. Almost every table surface in the living room is covered with baking trays. There’s also baking paper resting on plates and all of their wooden chopping boards. All of them are adorned with different shapes and sizes of gingerbread. Some appear to be labelled with small paper cards, all contain writing in icing sugar – mostly letters and numbers which weirdly (or not weirdly for Sherlock) appear to be chemical and even structural formulas. The smell is overwhelming and very, very nice. John stomach growls.

A clatter from the direction of the kitchen draws his attention. He walks over to gaze round the sliding door and laughs involuntarily. As expected, the kitchen looks like a battlefield. A wave of heat hits him despite the open kitchen and living room windows. Something is baking in the oven. Towers of used bowls and pots are standing everywhere. John wonders where they all come from. Has Sherlock borrowed all of Mrs Hudson’s and probably Speedy’s Café’s baking equipment as well as most of their kitchen utensils? The sink is invisible, buried under more used crockery. In the middle of the table, two different chemical experiments are set up. Icing sugar in different colours is smeared ... everywhere.

In all this chaos, Sherlock is standing. Despite the infernal heat, he is wearing his tartan dressing gown – his warmest – over The Shirt That Should Be Forbidden Because It’s So Bloody Tight It Makes Me Feel Funny, as John has secretly come to name it. Safety glasses adorn Sherlock’s face, making his features even more odd-looking and strangely proportioned than usual, and causing John’s heart to leap and his stomach to do funny flips. Nobody but John’s weird flatmate could possibly manage to look a mixture of daft, adorable, sexy and utterly, heartbreakingly lovely and beautiful at the same time.

He hasn’t noticed John yet, busy as he is with carefully applying icing sugar to a piece of gingerbread with what looks like a pipette. As John steps closer, he sees that in front of Sherlock, the beginnings of a gingerbread house have taken shape – and that the house has some very recognisable features such as a red awning with white writing, six white-framed windows, ornamental iron railings recreated in black icing, and a very familiar door on which Sherlock is currently drawing 221B in yellow icing.

John simply watches him in rapt fascination. Sherlock is totally engrossed in his task. There is icing sugar in his hair and on the collar of his shirt. Sweat is beading on his nose, but he makes no move to brush it away. He looks tousled and dishevelled in such a lovely way that John feels his heart drown in a wave of sentiment. He loves this ridiculous man so very much. And he wants Sherlock to finally know, in clear, unmistakable terms, whatever the consequences.

Feeling bold, almost reckless of a sudden, John approaches, rounds the table, clears his throat only when he is standing next to Sherlock who appears not to have noticed him until now. Sherlock jumps slightly but rallies quickly. “Don’t eat the pieces marked with the formulas,” he warns, waving in the direction of the living room with the hand holding the pipette.

“Why not?” asks John. “They smell delicious. Didn’t know you were such an expert at making gingerbread.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes but looks pleased all the same. “It’s not actually difficult, particularly not when one has mastered basic chemistry.”

John smiles. “Which you have.”

“Which I have. As you may recall, John, I have a Master’s degree in said field. Anyway, if you would like a taste, try those on the tray over there,” he nods towards the smaller table set against the wall parting the kitchen from the stairwell.

“What’s wrong with those in the living room.”

“Most of them contain some kind of poison.”

“Poison?”

“Cyanide, arsenic, nutmeg.”

John gazes from Sherlock towards the living room and back at Sherlock, frowning. “Case?” he ventures.

“Case, yes. A man was found severely ill with his stomach contents revealing a large portion of gingerbread – or the German variant of _Lebkuchen_ , to be precise. His wife, who had been baking the gingerbread, claims her recipe was ordinary, handed down from her German grandmother. I have been experimenting with ways of slipping poison into it without said substances showing up in toxicology screenings or being detectable by taste.”

“Okay ... and you’re sure those over there are safe?”

“Yes. I’ve eaten almost half of said batch myself and am feeling fine. And I kept meticulous records of what went into each batch. I suspect the woman did indeed intend to poison her partner by using large amounts of nutmeg in her recipe, which caused a reaction of the myristicin and elemicin in the spice with her husband’s anxiety medication. I experimented with different amounts of nutmeg, but also with more ordinary poisons.”

John smiles, helping himself to a piece of – hopefully non-toxic – gingerbread and taking a careful bite. It’s excellent. The amount of nutmeg is just right. He nods towards the half-assembled gingerbread house in front of Sherlock and the door in his hand. “221B,” he says.

Sherlock shrugs, a faint blush adorning his cheeks. “Well, there were so many leftovers – of the non-poisonous varieties ... I thought it would make a nice Christmas gift for Mrs H.”

John smiles at him warmly. “That’s a wonderful idea. She’ll love it. Uhm ... need any help?”

“Actually, yes. You can hold the pieces in place while I glue them together with icing sugar.”

“Sure.”

Stepping next to him, John feels his stomach flip again. Sherlock smells ... delicious. He almost always does, apart from those times when cases require him to experiment with noxious chemicals or he’s spent half a day at the morgue or dug through skips or the like, or, worse, when he smokes a rare, stealthy cigarette. But his normal, well, Sherlock-scent is lovely: warm, familiar, slightly spicy and very, very human.

His face heating, John brushes past Sherlock to reach the sink. “I’ll just wash my hands again, then I’m all yours.”

It could have been a trick of the light, but Sherlock appears to stand taller at the throwaway statement. He swallows. “Okay,” he replies.

Is John reading too much into this, or is Sherlock’s voice slightly hoarse? He dries his hands on a mostly clean dish towel and steps next to Sherlock again. There is icing sugar on the side of his neck, probably because he scratched himself there absently, his fingers sticky with the stuff. It’s just there, right in front of John’s eyes. He licks his lips. His heart has begun to race. Sweat which has nothing to do with the heat from the nearby oven has begun to trickle out of his hair onto his forehead.

“John, you can ...” Sherlock has turned to him – only to freeze and gaze at him, his expression comical because of the ridiculous safety glasses. He looks ... surprised. Shocked, even. John can only guess how _he_ must look to Sherlock, and what his friend is able to read in _his_ expression. All signs of attraction must be there for the world’s most observant man to see, blatantly obvious. And for once, John doesn’t mind. _Let him see – and do with it whatever he wants._ He swallows, jerks up his chin.

Sherlock swallows, too. It could be the glasses, but his pupils look dilated. The blush on his cheeks has deepened. He swallows again.

“You’ve got sugar on your collar. And your neck,” says John, his voice slightly unsteady.

“Oh,” breathes Sherlock, standing very tall and still. However, his hand holding the pipette is trembling ever so slightly. He’s a bundle of nerves, much worse than John who feels as if he’s dissolving in emotion.

“Yeah.”

Sherlock swallows again. “Do you ... could you ... help?”

“With the sugar?”

A shaky exhale. A blink, then another. “Yes. With the ... the sugar.”

“Okay.”

John licks his lips again. The pulse in Sherlock’s long neck is racing. He shifts his head slightly, exposing the neck even more. His lips part ever so slightly. Sherlock’s tongue dips out to wet them. John takes it as an invitation. Reaching up, he hooks two fingers into the collar of The Shirt That Should Be Forbidden and pulls it down to have better access to the sugar-stained skin where fine, downy hairs are sticking together. Drawing a last, fortifying breath, John leans in and touches his tongue to the skin.

A jolt like electricity races through Sherlock’s body. He doesn’t move away, though, just lets out another tremulous exhale.

“Okay?” enquires John softly.

Sherlock makes a low, rumbling sound in his throat but seems unable to speak. John needs his explicit consent, however, to feel comfortable enough to continue, particularly given how unused Sherlock appears to be to this kind of touch and all its implications. “Sherlock? Want me to stop?”

Sherlock’s head twitches in a shake.

“I need some more substantial consent, you know,” says John softly, his lips still only inches away from Sherlock’s nape.

“Don’t stop,” breathes Sherlock.

John smiles, stepping even closer and licking a long stripe up Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock reacts with a full-body-shudder, but he doesn’t look uncomfortable. On the contrary, his eyes are half closed and a smile is playing at the corners of his mouth. He makes another rumbling sound that goes straight to John’s groin.

“Like that, do you?” teases John, his confidence growing. Sherlock really wants this. John never dared dream that a day would come when he’d lick Sherlock’s neck and Sherlock would let him, even encourage him.

“Surprisingly, yes,” replies Sherlock, sounding stunned, awed and pleased at the same time. He swallows, clears his throat, his tense shoulders relaxing. His voice takes on a more habitually bossy tone. “And while you’re at it ... it appears as though icing sugar has found its way down the front of my shirt as well. And the side of my throat. And my chin. And my lips.”

John laughs softly. “Oh, really? Let me have a look.” He reaches up to gently draw Sherlock’s head down to his. Hesitating briefly to check whether Sherlock is really okay with what they’re about to do, he sees no discomfort or reluctance, but only wonder and excitement, laced with a hint of nerves. Encouraged, he touches his lips to Sherlock’s. Sherlock freezes, albeit only briefly, before he surges forward and returns the kiss with more ardour than John is prepared for. He rallies quickly, though, his instincts and years of suppressed yearning taking over. Sherlock tastes of gingerbread and tea.

They kiss for a long time, gently and somewhat clumsily at first because of the odd angle and Sherlock’s ridiculous glasses, which he promptly takes off. Turning more fully to John and pressing himself against him, he deepens the kiss, endearing in his eagerness paired with a definite lack of expertise.

Eventually, they break the kiss in order to breathe and allows their thoughts to catch up with their emotions. Sherlock is looking at John as though he has hung the moon. John knows he’ll never tire of this look for the rest of his life. He is probably looking the same way at Sherlock. Reaching up, he touches Sherlock’s hair, before running his hand lightly down his cheek.

“Sounds pretty uncomfortable, all this icing sugar in weird places,” murmurs John, leaning forward to nibble on Sherlock’s chin. It tastes sweet, and he grins into the kiss.

Sherlock chuckles, the sound reverberating in his chest. He squirms at John’s touch, grins as well. “It is. Your help is much appreciated.” He seems to have regained even more confidence, or he manages to hide his nervousness better. John is relieved the other is taking what must be altogether new territory for him in stride and moreover appears to be enjoying it.

“Would you prefer me to help you get rid of it here or ... somewhere else?” he asks, gazing up at Sherlock through his lashes. He’s nervous, too. Even though he has been with men before, it’s never been serious. None of his relationships – not even his failed marriage to Mary – have ever be this serious, this important, than what he has with Sherlock now – and has had all along, the friendship, the trust, the knowledge that this remarkable, strange, wonderful person is the love of his life. This is ... everything. He doesn’t want to mess it up.

“If ‘somewhere else’ implies a room with a horizontal surface to lie down on, yes, I’d be very much in favour.”

John laughs happily, relief surging through him. “Are there still any horizontal surfaces in this flat that are not occupied by poisoned gingerbread?”

“My bed is still free,” smirks Sherlock, his eyes sparkling mischievously.

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

They gaze at each other and begin to laugh, their foreheads touching as they sway towards each other. Sobering up slightly, John gazes at Sherlock gravely. “It’ll change things, you know.”

Sherlock inclines his head. “I am aware. But it’s about time, don’t you think? The tension – I think it’s called pining – between us has become unbearable, at least for me. And I’d like to try this. With you. If you’re willing.”

“I am.” John pecks his lips, which leads to more kissing.

“Bedroom?” asks John when after a while, they disentangle themselves in order to actually move.

Sherlock exhales shakily, blinks a few times, swallows, then nods gravely.

“Bedroom,” he rasps. He holds out his hand to John, who takes it enthusiastically, entwining their fingers and lets himself be pulled along.

**– <o>–**

They get as far as divesting Sherlock of his dressing gown, John of his jumper, and John getting started on the buttons of the The Shirt That Should Be Forbidden while sucking gently on Sherlock’s throat when the smoke alarm goes off in the kitchen.

[Illustration](http://www.anke.edoras-art.de/images/sherlock_fanfic/sherlock_the-joye-of-snacks.jpg)


End file.
